Five years ago I realized — and, I think, accepted — that there were lifetimes worth of amazing music I would never, ever hear. At the time I wrote, “You’re going up against forces you will never conquer. It’s a losing battle. To me, though, there’s a remarkable kind of beauty in that.”
As this decade concludes, I face a related but more troubling epiphany: I won’t even remember the great stuff I did hear, that I did love. No, my mind is not a steel trap. It’s more like a plastic colander. You think you know yourself.
Seventy-three hours and 25 minutes — that’s the total length of my 100 favorite albums and EPs from the 2010s. (This is not from Spotify’s algorithm-generated “Wrapped” playlists; I culled this particular collection on my own.) This is stuff I really like — or, more accurately, stuff I really liked. I forgot about a lot of this music. Some of it unearthed itself gradually, wriggling out of my subconscious at unexpected moments. Other times it came about with more purposeful effort: digging through various playlists I’d made over the past 10 years for parties, for workouts, for girlfriends real and girlfriends hoped for.
Simultaneously, I’ve been whittling down my 100 favorite songs from the decade — a more challenging exercise; I can’t get it shorter than 103 songs.
Still, there’s music I’m surely forgetting — stuff stored on old iPods and hard drives, rendered unusable by broken hardware, obsolete software and my own changing consumer habits. (Even if I could fix my iPod, am I even willing to carry it around anymore?)
In the midst of all this musical recall, you begin realizing some things.
I have beaten so much of it into the ground, this music I’ve loved. Became enamored with it, cherished it, hugged it so tightly until all the mystery was gone and I couldn’t stand it anymore. Then there was other music I told myself I loved, but revisiting it now, I don’t think I ever truly loved it, in my heart of hearts. It was aspirational: I liked the idea of this music, and what liking that music might communicate about who I am. I recently told someone that ultimately, music will never let you down, even when the rest of your life might. But now I don’t think that’s actually true. Music can let you down constantly.
It’s so easy to believe the stories we tell ourselves — the narratives we weave, both painstakingly and haphazardly — about our life soundtrack. But music bears the truth out eventually. Music may sometimes lie to your heart, but your heart can only lie to music for so long. You like the things you like. At some point your own taste becomes unavoidable.
An old adage says that art is a lie used to tell the truth. I think more often than not, the truth is simply our heart’s reaction to that lie.
For the past two months I’ve been visiting a psychologist. She’s had me create a list of memories from every year of my life. The list was sparse when I started, but the floodgates of memory eventually opened. Things I hadn’t recalled in years migrated from my subconscious to the forefront of both mind and heart. Sometimes it came easily, other times I had to really dig. And it occasionally felt frightening, being confronted with a lifetime’s worth of memories, and so many past versions of myself. This excavating seems manageable in the moment but often decimates my nerves after the fact. More than anything, I’ve just been shocked at my ability to forget. Numerous moments that once felt so central had receded, nearly to the point of being lost. How could I have forgotten so much so easily?
But maybe I shouldn’t be shocked. If I can’t even retain my favorite music, how could I possibly retain something as big as my entire life experience?
There’s a documentary called “Alive Inside: A Story of Music and Memory.” (It’s currently on Amazon Prime.) Over an insightful and inspiring 78 minutes, “Alive Inside” shows how music impacts memory loss and other degeneration in Alzheimer’s patients. Some of the film’s subjects are in the early stages of Alzheimer’s — their memories, abilities and overall sense of self have only begun to slip away. Others have completely regressed, becoming unresponsive and practically catatonic. But something happens when they hear music from their youth: The layers of degeneration begin peeling away. Eyes once glazed over and avoidant become focused; limbs, fingers and feet start moving to the beat; blank expressions give way to smiles. “It can’t get away from me if I’m in this place,” one crying Alzheimer’s patient says as she dances with headphones on.
These are inspiring moments, no doubt, but “Alive Inside” is also quite troubling. It zooms out to show how modern Western society does little to preserve the humanity of its elders. Dr. Bill Thomas, a gerontologist who’s interviewed in the documentary, said something that has stuck with me since I first saw “Alive Inside” nearly six years ago.
“We’re taught from a very early age that adulthood is the pinnacle of existence, and that older people are really just broken down versions of their former incredible selves,” Thomas said. “We’ve built a culture that prizes individuals who are able to emulate the success of machines, that can be machinelike in how they live.”
Calling someone “a machine” is usually a compliment these days. That speaks volumes.
Sometimes I forget the music I once loved. Sometimes I forget the moments I used to cherish. And when I feel bad about all of this, I guess I’m also forgetting that I’ve never actually been a machine.